


One For The Record

by mutents



Category: The A-Team (TV)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe, Canon Compliant, Canon Related, Character Study, M/M, One Shot Collection, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-03-26 14:41:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3854503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mutents/pseuds/mutents
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For four men who had been together for over a decade, the team had amassed a large collection of stories over their years together.</p><p>(The new one-shot collection)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Damned Lies to Damned Men

**Author's Note:**

> This is NOT a repost so much as it's a restart. I'm sorry if you had been a fan of either of the other stories. I felt that it wasn't quite what I wanted. But then, I'm never sure I know what I want...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal has always been the one with the plan. But sitting in a cell on an island, waiting for his execution, Smith's inability to come up with a plan brings back memories of another cage.
> 
> WARNINGS:  
> Wartime violence  
> Referenced torture  
> (ya know; the usual)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't tell you how long I've had this story in the works. Just know that it's been a while, and that I'm not quite sure I like the result... But, I can't keep it locked away for forever!

"How's that plan coming along?"

The question snaps you out of your thoughts. Your thoughts on yet another failed escape plan, another way your team could die trying to escape maximum security for a second time. You've lost count now of how many plans that is.

(That's a lie. It's your 62nd failed plan. This one ended with Murdock flying in to save them, but being shot out of the sky.)

You squeeze your eyes tightly, hoping to block out the images of your pilot's 26th possible passing. Unfortunately, it doesn't help.

There's only been one other time where you've frozen like this – where you've been completely unable to come up with an executable plan. But, you haven't been thinking of that at all.

(That's a lie. Ever since the MP's threw you in that first cell, you've been fighting your mind tooth and nail to forget that other cage.)

No, you certainly haven't been thinking about the time you and your A-Team spent at the hands of the Viet Cong. You haven't been thinking about how similar this situation really is - being accused of crimes you didn't commit. You especially haven't been thinking about the slope of your Lieutenant and Sergeant's shoulders, the curve you haven't seen since the first time the Captain was dragged back to your cell.

(That's a lie. As your two teammates slowly collapse in on themselves, you have been actively fighting the very same fate.)

You open your eyes, looking over at the two men under your care - no, under your command.

The conman, the one known for his ability to hide all emotions behind a smile, seems to have finally lost hope. It reminds you far too much of the look that had crossed his face when the VC pulled the body of your pilot out of the plane.

Next you look towards your mechanic, the man who had been famed for his terrible response to authority. The man now sitting on his bunk, hunched over. You never trained the lack of respect out of the man. You didn't see the need to. No, if anything, he trained you.

Putting your head in your hands, you think about the missing man, the missing member of your team. In a way, the pilot is probably the strongest member of your team. He was when you were 'Nam, and he was again when he was sitting in the courtroom, watching the proceedings.

Propping your head on your chin, your thoughts turn towards yourself. You had been a career military man; you had skipped your graduation, instead going to the nearest recruitment center. Even in the time between Korea and Vietnam you had been military; it had made the arrest all the harder. The army was what you dedicated your life to, but they didn’t feel the need to honor your service. You missed your father’s funeral, your sister’s marriage, the birth of your brother’s first child… You’d missed your life, and Uncle Sam didn’t blink an eye.

You shift again, this time leaning against the cement wall of the cell. You close your eyes, but snap them back open after images of a gangly man come unbidden to your minds eye.

It was supposed to be a simple mission; that's what the intel had reported, and that's what you had prepared for. You didn't usually listen to the intel, preferring to have at least one contingency plan in place. That was the first mission you hadn't had a Plan B.

(That's a lie. As you were dragged along the forest floor by Charlie, you realized that you had become increasingly complacent in your mission planning.)

It was just a reconnaissance mission. You didn't need a big team, which was why it was only the five of you. You hadn't even planned on landing the huey.

There was a huge difference between a landing and a crash.

(That's a lie. Your Captain was fond of saying that 'a good landing is one you can walk away from, but an excellent landing is one you can reuse the plane after’.)

You had an excellent team; the Major, the Captain, the Lieutenant, and the Sergeant were the perfect pillars. They supported and trusted each other unconditionally, even with all of the bickering. Not only that, but you could always rely on one of them taking a new team mate under their wing.

Sure, they were a little rough around the edges -- that was alright, you were, too. It was true that your XO never showed an emotion that wasn't deadly calm. You'd admit that your pilot hid his questionable state of mind behind a facade of foolishness. You were well aware that your supply officer was getting most of his "special sales" illegally. No one needed to to tell you that your mechanical officer was quicker to punch than to contemplate.

All of that was fine. You truly didn't mind.

(That's a lie. Whenever the Major kept his cool when he shouldn't have, the Captain did something ridiculous, the Lieutenant got you some Cubans, or the Sergeant clenched his fist, you could feel your lifespan loose a few years.)

They were the best in their fields; they were focused and strong and quick on their feet.

But that all changed 50 klicks north of Da Nang.

(That's a lie. It all changed in a small cell over 60 miles from Da Nang.)

You can't remember the crash. When you asked the other members of your team, only one could remember the impact -- the pilot.

You asked the pilot what the crash was like once. The Captain had been behind the wheel of B.A.'s van, humming to himself. You were in the passenger seat, unable to fall asleep.

The younger man said that time slowed to a snail's pace. He had crashed before, but time had never slowed down that much. He would blink and only fall a centimeter more.

You wish you could recall it.

(That's a lie. You're so glad you can't remember what happened. How the Captain described it... You don't want to ever experience that.)

The first thing you can recall is the sound of angry voices speaking a language you can't understand. As much as you don't want to face what's happening, you open your eyes, already knowing what's going to greet you.

You're the last one to rouse. The earlier shouting had, in fact, been directed at the Major, Lieutenant, and Sergeant.

The Major is standing tall, or at least as tall as someone who's leg is at an unnatural angle. The Lieutenant is grinning brightly, though it seems to be more of a grimace. The Sergeant is spitting mad, when only seconds ago he was terrified.

The Captain isn't there.

You shake your head, focusing on these foreign captors instead of the pain in your shoulder or the loss in your heart.

(That's a lie. Your nerves scream in pain while your mind weeps in agony. You had lost soldiers before, but you couldn't believe that your damn dinky dau pilot was one.)

You can tell the exact moment the Lieutenant realizes his friend isn't amongst the survivors. He starts struggling with his captors, desperately trying to reach the huey.

Your focus is on the enemy, getting a sense of their hierarchy in mere seconds, and you grin brightly at the man you can tell is in charge.

You don't speak, not trusting your voice to stay strong. And you have to be strong -- that's what your men need.

You hear a growl coming from the mechanic, and your eyes quickly follow his line of sight. His attention is on three of the VC, three men who are currently climbing over the rubble of the downed aircraft.

The urge to kill is far from your mind.

(That's a lie. You've never wanted to feel the life slip out of someone more. The pilot deserves his rest, and you've been aware of his sneaking out of the hootch to sleep in the helicopters since the first night. The man should sleep in death as he slept in life – underneath the blades of a helo.)

You watch as the vulturous Charlie's scavenge the plane, hoping to find anything they can use for their own war effort.

Your supply officer is still fighting, even though the VC has hit him several times in an attempt to shut him up.

Your focus is wrenched away from the young man when you hear a victory shout come from the Viet Cong men by the downed craft.

You expect to see them returning with one of the guns you had packed away. What you see instead shocks you.

(That's a lie. You certainly wouldn't describe the emotions welling up inside you as shock; it's excitement, nervousness, sorrow, dread, desperation. But foremost, it's hope.)

The three men are dragging the broken body of your pilot from the craft. You glance at the Lieutenant, and you hardly recognize the broken man before you.

It's your XO who first realizes that hope is not lost. The man's utterance of your name is what get's your attention. Glancing at him, you see him purposefully start breathing hard.

The information regarding the Captain's rapidly moving breathe hardly affects you.

(That's a lie. You want to shout to the skies, or to sing one of those damn songs the pilot is always humming, or hell, even to dance.)

You can tell that the Lieutenant and Sergeant have both realized that the Captain is still with you by the decreased struggle and the unclenching of fists.

The Lieutenant barely manages to stop his body from sagging to the ground in relief.

You find yourself contemplating the exact nature of the supply officer's relationship with the pilot.

(That's a lie. You're well aware of the men's... proclivities. Caught them in one of the Lieutenant's supply tents. You had understood -- you all were men at war, and the two in question were hardly past puberty.)

It had been obvious that the two were more than friends rather early in the team's relationship. Whenever a celebration in the Officer's Club lasted longer than an hour, the two would move to their own separate table in the corner and spend the rest of the evening with their heads dipped towards each other.

You were always a bit surprised on these evenings; it was incredibly brazen of the two men. Not everyone was as open as you. You figure it must be the Lieutenant who decided on the action -- as long as you have known the Captain, he's tried to avoid making others angry.

But, they were good for each other. You had been able to see that from the beginning. When the pilot had first become apart of the team, before the supplies officer had joined, he had rigidly followed the code of conduct. He always saluted you, always called you 'Colonel', and always refused to to listen when you asked him to call you by your first name.

But then the Lieutenant had arrived, and it was like you had a whole new pilot.

(That's a lie. He wasn't a whole new pilot, he was a man finally allowed to share his true personality.)

The Captain, who you couldn't remember ever seeing smile, only ever seemed to be grinning now. The man who had previously preferred spending post-mission celebrations working on his helicopter, now was sitting in the center of the team, sharing jokes.

Admittedly, the pilot did still salute both you and the Major every time you entered a room. But, he had also started referring to both of you by your nicknames. And that was a baby step, at least.

(That’s a lie. It wasn’t a step, it was a leap.)

The hours, days, weeks of travel blend together in a sea of mud and blood. If you aren’t marching, you’re fighting for slumber. If you aren’t fighting for slumber, you’re marching. There really isn’t anything of note happening.

You don’t become truly conscious of the passage of time until you arrive, sore and starving, at the camp.

(That’s a lie. You can remember every bump in the road, every time one of your men is hit by the butt of a rifle, every whimper of pain that passes the lips of your pilot.)

You’re sickened to find that you're glad to be in a cell with your men. You haven’t been allowed to acknowledge the existence of your team. Now you can look over them, reassure yourself at the very least.

The Major’s been walking on a broken leg. The Lieutenant is still hunched in pain, most likely due to a few broken ribs. The Sergeant is best off, with a sprained wrist as his only injury.

You almost don’t want to examine the Captain, terrified at what you might find. The few hours of sleep granted to you and your men on the march had always been broken by whimpers, sometimes full screams, of pain. And looking at the man now, you are all the more amazed by his survival.

(That’s a lie. The cigars will kill you. The Major’s constant need to do good will do him in. The Lieutenant will lie to the wrong man. The Sergeant will be lost in some stupid fight. But the Captain… He’ll survive.)

The pilot finally silences as you examine him – his previous screams of pain now just a whimper. The change is probably more due to the supply officer's presence, though. The blond man is letting his fingers slide through the greasy and matted hair of the brunette, humming a song that you could vaguely recall hearing from the man lying prone. The conman was soothing the pilot, comforting him as best he could.

The Captain’s injuries are bad. The worst you’ve seen, besides death. His head is cracked open, the blood having long dried and crusted. His leg is at an even worse angle than that of your XO. He’s burning up and shaking. He’s on death's door.

So you do the only thing you can do. You pray, and after, you sleep.

(That’s a lie. There’s so much else you could have done. You could have tried wrapping his wounds; you could have found a way out; you could have made his last hours on earth a little more comfortable.)

You wake to the sound of harsh whispers. You don’t open your eyes; instead you try to glean something useful.

It’s the Lieutenant who’s whispering the loudest. His quiet words are infused with emotion: anger, fear, heartache, sorrow, pain. He’s harshly saying that the Colonel has given up on the Captain.

(That’s a lie. You haven’t given up. You’ve recognized a lost battle.)

Your Sergeant replies in a tone you’ve never heard from the big man; you have to strain your ears to hear. He said something about the Captain being hurt real bad, and that he’s worried enough for both himself and the Colonel.

Your Lieutenant’s reply is sharp and instant. He says that the mechanic shouldn’t need to worry for the both of them because the Colonel should do his damn job.

His response surprises you.

(That’s a lie. The supplies officer has always thought more with his heart than his head, just like the Captain thought mostly with his head, the Sergeant with his anger, and you with your gut.)

The Major speaks next, quietly saying that he’s wrapped the Captain’s wounds and tried to make the man more comfortable. He says, the only thing left to do is wait. The ‘for morning’ or ‘for death’ goes unsaid.

The Lieutenant responds by saying, you mean you did what our CO should have done.

The Major stays silent.

The Captain moans.

(That’s a lie. It isn’t a moan. It’s more of a whimper; a sob; a groan; a wail.)

You let your eyes flit open just the slightest bit, and let them glance at your supply officer. The man has the Captain’s head in his lap, and his fingers are still carding through the man’s hair. You can see an anger in his eyes.

People who don’t know your team very well always expect your Sergeant to be the dangerous one. Hell, maybe even the Captain, if he’s in the mood. But you know better.

You know that the real danger comes in the form of your blond Lieutenant. The man could con a homeless man out of his cardboard box. You were always glad that those skills were being put to good use – helping instead of hindering. But the fact that nobody ever expected the conman to be the most dangerous just went to prove what a threat the man could pose.

The person everyone thought could do no damage usually ended up doing the most.

(That’s a lie. It’s not that the damage they are doing is any worse. It’s just that the betrayal creates a double edged blade.)

You make it appear that you are noticeably rousing from your sleep, hoping that none of the men have realized that it’s a lie.

The knowing look in the Major’s eyes let’s you know that one man is not fooled.

You murmur an inquiry to the Captain’s health, hoping not to rouse the other prisoners. The disruption in your team shouldn’t have to affect the other men.

(That’s a lie. You feel like you should be screaming, waking every man in this damn camp. Everyone should know that a good man -- a great man -- is dying.)

The conman narrows his eyes at you, a hissed ‘fine’ coming from his lips. The ‘no thanks to you’ goes unsaid.

The four of you stay in silence for a few minutes, with the whimpers of the wounded pilot the soundtrack to your thoughts.

It’s the Sergeant who finally breaks the quiet, asking what Charlie wants from the Captain. The other two men murmur their lack of knowledge, and you once again feel like caving in on yourself.

(That’s a lie. You feel like collapsing, disappearing.)

You know that the pilot has run a few black ops missions, helping out the spooks. It isn’t explicitly stated in his file, but the large blanks share a story that even the exact logistics could tell. Not only that, but the fact that he’s a pilot makes him an even bigger target.

The Viet Cong love pilots.

(That’s a lie. They hate pilots. It’s torture that those beasts adore.)

My mama’s recipe for chili, is the answer given to the mechanic. It’s a slurring of words, nearly impossible to make out, and it comes from your pilot.

The supply officer let’s out a broken chuckle, the mechanic snorts, even your XO gives a huff of laughter. You stay silent, but let a small grin flit across your face.

Suddenly, it’s not so bleak. You can feel a plan forming -- a way to get your men out of this danger and to safety.

(That’s a lie. It’s weeks before you finally come up with a plan -- weeks of beatings, starvation, and sleepless nights.)

Just like that, you’re back in a small cell, on a small island, awaiting a firing squad. You look to the Sergeant, finally giving the man an answer.

"It's coming."

(That's a lie. It’s all a lie. But you're an actor. Actor's are allowed to lie.)


	2. Five Clients (And One Teammate)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A 5+1 story.
> 
> WARNINGS:  
> Light reference to torture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The clients are as follows:
> 
> 1\. Trish Brenner = [s01e13, A Nice Place to Visit](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0504145/?ref_=ttep_ep13)  
> 2\. Lin Duk Coo = [s02e02, Recipe for Heavy Bread](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0504192/?ref_=ttep_ep2)  
> 3\. Lisa Perry = [s03e21, Waste 'Em!](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0504235/?ref_=ttep_ep21)  
> 4\. Boy George = [s04e16, Cowboy George](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0504160/?ref_=ttep_ep16)  
> 5\. A.J. Bancroft = [s05e08, Family Reunion](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0504167/?ref_=ttep_ep8)
> 
> I also included links to the iMDB page, in case you need refreshers. I know that most of you guys haven't seen these ten+ times like I have.

**1\. Trish Brenner**

Trish could still remember the first letter she got from Ray about his new teammates. He'd described each of them perfectly, and in his typical Ray way.

_The leader is a guy named John "Hannibal" Smith. Hannibal is... brilliant. Unfortunately, the only thing higher than his IQ is his desire to die. Then there's the Ammunitions expert, B.A. Baracus. I'm just gonna say that B.A. stands for "Bad Attitude" - that's honestly everything you need to know about him. He's the only one of us who is still an NCO; probably will remain one, too. Then there's the team pilot - "Howlin' Mad" Murdock. Even if the guy is only a step away from a section 8, there's not another guy I'd want flying me around this hellhole. The last guy of note is Templeton "Faceman" Peck, and "Faceman" is truly the best way to describe him. I'm just glad that I can't send you a picture of the guy. I'd hate to get a "Dear Ray" letter, especially if it's only for you to go and start dating this guy._

_Howling Mad and Faceman are old friends, too. I don't know if they knew each other from before the war, or if they've met while they were here. Either way, the two are pretty damn chummy. All in all, they're good guys. Hell, "good" doesn't do them justice. They're the best of men. Wouldn't want any other guys watching my back over here._

_I love you Trish, and can't wait to see you again,_  
_Ray_

Trish peaked out the small window that Ray had added, and watched as his former teammates sat around the table she'd sat with him merely a week before. They'd discussed baby names. Now, the four were sitting in her dining room, discussing battle plans to avenge her husband's death.

She glanced at the pilot and the conman. They were close - almost as close as Trish and Ray had been. She couldn't help but wonder if it was the same kind of closeness.

* * *

  **2\. Lin Duk Coo**

Lin Duk Coo had liked the pilot from the first meeting. The "flyboy" had been a bright spot in an incredibly dark place. He'd always had a smile for Lin, and also always had a song. But as friendly as the man had been, it had always been obvious to Lin that the man hated not being with his friends.

General Chow was strict about his rule. Pilot's were special. Pilot's had to sit in the steaming sun all day, and be bitten by all of the bugs at night. The other three were kept with the rest of them.

But Lin had done what he could, for all four of the men. He'd shared messages between the groups, brought food, and told the others how they were doing.

But... the Faceman had always been the most interested in how the pilot was doing. The pretty man had asked after the other one every time Lin passed by. Lin had told him as much as he could.

When they'd first started pulling the pilot in for "advanced" questioning, the man had started singing "well he walked up to me and he asked me if I wanted to dance." He'd kept singing the song every time they'd started asking more questions.

When Lin had told the pretty one that fact, the man had blushed.

* * *

  **3\. Lisa Perry**

While Lisa might have been blind, she knew that she didn't need eyes to see the... connection between Face and H.M.. Even A.J. had seen it, and he could hardly put a name to his own emotions when it came to the pretty redheaded waitress at the diner they always went to.

She smiled as she heard the sound of a bouncing foot against the floor. Face had been paging through a magazine for most of the afternoon, and H.M. was incapable of sitting still. A rustle of fabric later, along with the shifting of paper, and she could hear the sound of calloused hands on khakis.

The tapping stopped.

"Sorry, Face."

"It's fine, Murdock."

Lisa smiled again.

* * *

  **4\. Boy George**

Boy hadn't had this much fun in a long time. Sure, the two guys were absolutely  _crazy_ , but boy were they... fun. They also had some truly incredible chemistry.

Sure, they weren't as flamboyant as he was, but Boy had a feeling that neither of them could have pulled of the eye shadow look anyway. Hell, there were days he woke up and wasn't sure  _he_ could pull off the eye shadow look. But, Boy had always had an excellent gaydar.

And these two certainly set it off.

He couldn't put a finger on it... It was probably the fear in the pilot's eye when the two had returned to the motel. The fact that they'd gone straight to the bathroom... That really hadn't done them much good, either.

The two had come out... calmer, to say the least.

* * *

  **5.**   **A.J. Bancroft**

A.J. had never been a good father. Not to Ellen, and not to Richard. But, his lack of skills as a father had been more than doubled in his skills as a business man, and those skills had been made up for in his ability to read people.

A.J. had been able to tell from the very first glance that the pilot was the way to go. He cared about his son, and not just as a friend cares for another friend.

A part of him wanted to be disgusted. Another part of him realized that the man was still his son, despite his... proclivities.

And, the pilot truly cared. He cared about Richard in a way A.J. never had. A.J. was rather surprised that the pilot had kept quite this long. Anyone who cared that much about one man was bound to tell him eventually.

A.J. just wished that he could have told Richard that he didn't care.

As it was, he just got to add that to his list of mistakes.

* * *

  ** _+1. Tawnia Baker_**

While Tawnia loved watching all of the team, she especially enjoyed watching Face and Murdock. The two reminded her of her favorite great-uncle and his "companion."

Tawnia had known the truth. She'd walked in on Uncle Edmund and Uncle Paul kissing once when she was six. She hadn't cared - after all, they were going to take her to a play that day!

Even once she grew up, and learned that it was something her father thought was "disgusting", she still hadn't minded. By that point, Uncle Paul had gotten sick - really sick. She'd been twenty at that point, and had happily visited her uncle's every week.

She could still remember going to Uncle Paul's funeral. She'd sat with Uncle Edmund, and held his hand throughout. She hadn't seen him cry once, but she'd been able to tell that he wanted to. When they'd gone back to his house together, she'd cracked open a bottle of scotch that had looked nice and old.

He'd told her everything about they're relationship. That Paul had been a pilot during World War II, that Edmund had been one the mechanics on the B-52's Paul had flown. When they'd returned from the war, they'd met up with each other again... and a spark had been set off. A spark that had lasted them several decades.

Tawnia smiled as she watched Face lean in towards Murdock, the pilot pointing to a line in his book and snickering.

Oh yes, those two were just like Uncle Edmund and Uncle Paul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay for trying to make Tawnia into an enjoyable character! I quite like her myself, despite the sub-par writing she was given. She's eager. That's a good thing.


	3. Damned Lies to Damned Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a cage in Vietnam, Murdock realizes that the stars he'd loved for so long had lied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS:  
> Offensive language in regards to mental health  
> Prisoners of War  
> Torture

Murdock had once mastered the art of letting others comments wash off of him. It wasn't all that hard, considering he dealt with the looks and whispers every time he left the house. The whispers of, "he must be an idiot" and "god, what a freak" accompanied every step he made. At one point he'd realized that this wasn't natural, that it was as fake as his smiles. But, still he grinned when people asked him if he was a 'tard.

It was quite a bit harder to smile when you were crammed into a cage in the hot sun for hours a day. Even harder when welts peppered your back and your shoulders had spent hours in an unnatural angle.

Despite how much every move hurt, Murdock shifted so that he could look up at the night sky. There were new stars here. Maybe that's why they only spoke in lies. Right now they were twinkling on about how _they have a plan, Murdock! Hannibal always has a plan_.

Murdock knew better. At some point in his relationship with the colonel, he'd realized the man never really had plans. Plans involved steps, and prayer, and maybe a few swear words. Smith had the swearing part down, but he always skipped the steps and prayer.

Murdock felt himself start to choke. He was fighting for air, desperate to get another breath. _What had done it?_ He wondered. Had it been the whipping? Or the hours he'd spent that one day hanging from arms that had been fastened behind his head? Hell, had it just been the hours he'd spent sitting in this cage in the hot sun?

His breath caught, finally taking. He tried to take slow breaths, knowing that was probably better than starting to hyperventilate. He focused his watery eyes back on the stars. _That's Boötes,_ he thought, seeing the distinctive kite shape in the constellation and the bright shine of Arcturus. _Arcturus; 36.7 light years away, visual magnitude of -0.04, fourth brightest star, red giant. Over there is Pegasus, with Epsilon Pegasi shining brightest. Epsilon Pegasi; 690 light years away, visual magnitude of +0.7 to +3.5, 12 times the mass of the sun, supergiant. Then there's Cestus, with Diphda as it's brightest star. Diphda; 96.3 light years away, visual magnitude of +2.02, 145 times brighter than the sun, giant._

Listing off facts always helped him calm back down.

If he listened closely, he could hear the stars speaking again. _Just wait, Murdock! Just wait!_

He closed his eyes tightly. It was getting harder and harder to wait.


	4. on nights like tonight...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For some, night terrors are their constant companions. Others no longer dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Less shippy, more general post war time sad.
> 
> WARNINGS:  
> Nightmares  
> PTSD  
> War time violence
> 
> ALSO:  
> I have no idea if that grenade "fact" is, actually, a fact. I got it from an episode of The Rockford Files. I tried to do some research, and it is true that the grenade used in the Vietnam war had a fuse of four seconds. The more you know!

When Hannibal slept, on those rare nights that he did, his lost comrades paraded through his dreams.

Though, considering the way those visions ended, perhaps _nightmare_ was a better term.

The battlefield in his mind wasn't often Korea. No, the war that John "Hannibal" Smith returned to time and time again had happened in a different jungle, in a different time, with a different weapon. A far more dangerous weapon. Grenades that went off after four seconds instead of seven, planes that dropped good men off to die, other helicopters that let off a white spray in the name of 'peace'.

Korea hadn't been a picnic, but 'Nam had been hell.

* * *

B.A.'s nights were quiet, more often than not. One of the benefits to his loud anger during the day was that his nights were rather peaceful.

But when he did have nightmares, they were of corpses that were to small to seem real. Children with burns and mangled limbs and stomachs that showed more ribs than fingers. He'd always liked kids, even when he had been little more than one himself. But the kids of 'Nam... they had been the real soldiers.

B.A. and the rest were just strangers in a strange land.

* * *

Face didn't dream. Hadn't since the orphanage.

He'd never imagined he'd be thankful for that.

* * *

Murdock tossed and turned every night. His nights were as noisy as his days. He'd come to accept that it was part of the reason why the others didn't like sharing a room with him; he took forever to fall asleep, and once he finally did, he would often whimper and moan in his sleep as Charlie once again started torturing him.

Perhaps that was the worst part of it... The others only occasionally faced nightmares from the camps. For Murdock, the torture hadn't ended with their escape. Instead, it seemed to accompany his every waking moment, and the memories bled into his sleep as well.

He hated it. He hated that he couldn't forget that damn war. He had never wanted to fight, to be a soldier; for him, it had always been about the birds. But he'd left that infested hellhole unable to fly and unable to forget.

He found he didn't get much sleep anymore, either.


	5. No Matter Black, White, or Beige...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in the states, the U.S. was still adapting to the Civil Rights Movement. In Vietnam, though, the color of skin doesn’t matter. After all, everyone bleeds red.

B.A. knew first hand what racism was. Chicago was full of it -- full of bigoted, close-minded, bastards that hated Bosco and his mother purely because of their skin color. He hated it; hated that these old white men had decided that B.A. was useless and a criminal just because he was black.

But now… Now that B.A. was over in ‘Nam… He realized that that old white bastard had been wrong. Dead wrong. Because over here -- here in this country where friend and foe were indistinguishable -- the color of B.A.’s skin didn’t matter. What was important was that he could fight.

* * *

While Murdock had grown up in Texas, Grams and Gramps had never been like most of their neighbors -- and they hadn’t raised Murdock to be like that, either. He’d known that when Martin Luther King Jr. had talked about the content of one’s character, the Reverend had been tellin’ the truth.

And now Murdock was in country, and the beliefs that Grams and Gramps had taught him were bein’ proved true day after day. There was the big, angry mudsucker that the Colonel had brought who hid his carin’ behind his gruff insults. There was Anakoni Kekoa, Murdock’s big Hawaiian crew chief, who H.M. loved to give shit to for being too big to fly on huey skids. There were the dozens of men Murdock had picked up as a medevac; blacks, whites, asians, latinos… They were all fightin’ in the same war for the same ideals, and they were all leavin’ red blood in his bird.

* * *

At the orphanage, Face had seen black children just as much as white children. He could still remember, though, when Guxley -- a kid around sixteen who had been at the orphanage since he was four -- had decided it would be hilarious if he and his buddies smeared mud over their bodies and pretended to be black. Face hadn’t laughed -- he hadn’t found it funny. He especially hadn’t been laughing that night when little Daryl had crawled into Face’s bed and cried himself to sleep, arms wrapped around Peck’s torso.

Face flinched as a bullet hit the tree he had ducked behind. He could see B.A. a few feet away to his left, hiding behind a downed log. On his right, Eduardo Diaz was crouched behind a boulder, a light blossom of red spreading on his shoulder. The two men were two of the best fighters Face had seen. He kept wishing that Daryl hadn’t been killed in a hate crime the year before Peck left the orphanage; these were two men that he would have sent letters to the black boy about.

* * *

Ray had grown up in a small town in Iowa. He hadn’t seen a black man until he’d enlisted. He’d heard the stories that the old codgers had shared; that black men were a plague to America, that they were stealing the American Dream that those old men had fought for. The first time he’d fallen under fire, Ray had made a mental note to thank the racist old bastards for fighting -- because if it hadn’t been for B.A., Trish would been getting a very different letter than the one he was planning on sending out the next day.

As he looked across the hooch, glancing at where B.A. and Yung were arguing over the proper way to overhaul an engine, Ray smiled as he realized that this was what he was fighting for. He was fighting so that two brilliant men of color could argue about mechanics, so that some black boy back in the States could date some white girl and not have to worry about her daddy and his shotgun. He was fighting for the old American Dream that every man, woman, and child deserved -- no matter their skin color.

* * *

While his Allentown neighborhood had been mostly white, the city had had enough diversity in it that shipping out hadn’t been the first time Hannibal had seen a black boy. When one of the General’s had asked if Hannibal was against leading black men in battle, the Colonel had simply snorted. He knew that the skills of a soldier had nothing to do with the outside. The true measure of a soldier was hidden inside.

As Hannibal explained the components of his plan to B.A., he was able to tell that the black Sergeant wanted to tell him that what Hannibal wanted was impossible. As the Colonel’s grey eyes flicked to look at Diaz and Yung, he felt his own face morph into a grin as the two men laughed behind their hands. He knew what these men hid inside; the kind of steel that most of the white boys back home could only dream of.


	6. One in Eighteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I was watching a documentary about helicopter pilots in Vietnam, and apparently 1 in 18 pilots died. Now, I don't know for sure how accurate that is, but it was a Smithsonian documentary, so I'm betting it was pretty damn close.

It wasn't often that Face find Murdock in the Officer's Club alone - usually if he wasn't with the team he was with a few of his fellow flyboys. It seemed tonight was an exception, and considering how far gone the pilot was it probably had a pretty good reasoning behind it.

"Hey, Murdock..." Face murmured, sliding into the seat next to his friend's. "How goes it, buddy?"

Murdock stayed silent, choosing to stare into his amber filled glass instead. Just as Face was about to ask again, the other man spoke up.

"You know O'Brien?"

Face nodded, recognizing the name and recalling the young red head who went with it. The boy had been at the bottom of his flight class according to Murdock, but was supposedly a sweet kid. The pilot had taken the other under his wing after their first meeting, and O'Brien had even occasionally come to share drinks with the rest of the team as a result.

"He was shot down today, flying back from an LZ. He and Pierce and Garrett and Farrell."

"You know, they said that this war was going to be Hell on pilots. Reports have spouted out numbers to us - statistics to take to heart and to never tell our friends and family. Stuff like one in twenty-five and one in thirty. Recent ones have been even more grim - one in twenty and one in eighteen. That's how many of us flyboys are going to have our wings clipped by ol' death himself."

"Murdock, I don't understand - why is this hitting you so hard, hurting you so much?"

"'Cause... 'Cause I was the one who was supposed to fly it. I begged with O'Brien to switch it with me just last night at this very same table. He was supposed to pick you guys up instead of me - punishment from General Martin for that prank we pulled on him."

"Murdock... It isn't your fault..."

"That's easy for you to say, Face! You and Hannibal and B.A. and Ray... You all have better chances than me! And, and, and O'Brien... He had a girl back home in Minnesota - prettiest little girl I've ever seen the picture of. They were gonna get married in Hawai'i in a month when he had a week of R&R. His parents were gonna fly out, too. Seamus and Maggie - that's their names. Kept tellin' me that when he and Deborah - that's his girls name - had a son, he was gonna name him after me. Sure, I knew it was just talk... but whoever said 'talk is cheap' is a dirty rotten liar.

"I mean, Faceman, it should have been me! If I hadn't traded it would have been me. And that would have been fine. I don't have anyone to go home to. My dad left, my mom died, and both Gramma and Grampa Murdock have now, too... I've got no one and he had everyone."

"Well, there's obviously only one thing you can do, Murdock - you've got to live your life for him. Don't waste a single second more mourning. Go out there and do everything you can to make sure he didn't die in vain."

Murdock put his glass down and turned towards Peck, giving him a watery smile. "You might have something there." The pilot paused, then nodded and pushed himself away from the table. "You're right. You're completely right. I'm gonna do just that!" He paused again, with another nod. "First though, I've got a letter to write."


	7. five times peck took care of murdock (and one time murdock took care of peck)

_-1._

"So, how can I help you, Sir?" Peck asked, testing the waters with the flyboy next to him.

"Murdock, please. Sir makes me sound old, and I'm hardly any older than you," the pilot said, his southern drawl slipping into every word.

"Well then, Murdock - what can I get you?"

The taller man looked to the left and to the right, before finally locking eyes with Peck again. "I'm looking for a map. But not one of Uncle Sam's, I'm hoping for a local one." Templeton nodded, cocking his head to the side. "See, Uncle Sam don't like us pilots thinking about lots of stuff, like locals and what not. So, the don't always put villages on the maps they give us. Well, I figure that just ain't right, so I was hoping you could get me one made right here in country. That way I don't crash into some poor farmers house."

Peck nodded, understanding the pilot's sentiment. "I should be able to wrestle that up."

"How much'll it cost?" The pilot asked, reaching for the pocket Templeton assumed held his wallet.

"This order will be on the house, yeah?" Peck said, leaning back on his bar stool.

The pilot grinned, before gesturing to the Vietnamese man behind the bar and pointing to Peck's glass, then holding up two fingers. "In that case, next round's on me."

_-2._

"Lieutenant, I'd like to introduce you to our new pilot," Hannibal said, taking a pull from his cigar as he gestured behind himself.

Peck couldn't quite hold back the grin when he realized who the pilot was.

"Murdock!" He exclaimed, walking towards the other man and slapping him on the shoulder. "When the hell did you get transferred here?"

"'bout a week ago. Had no idea that I'd be seeing your ugly face, man!" The pilot exclaimed in return, giving Peck a pat on the shoulder as well.

"Well, seeing as you already know Peck, I'll let him get you acquainted with the rest of the team," Hannibal said, giving Templeton a curious look.

"Thank you, sir," Murdock said, giving Hannibal a salute.

"I already told you, Captain - either call me Colonel or call me Hannibal, but sure as hell don't call me sir."

"I like him," Murdock said, turning to grin at Peck after the Colonel had left the tent.

"We all do. Now come on, I'll get you settled in a bunk and then we'll meet the rest of the team."

_-3._

Face hadn't let himself lose track of the days. He knew some of the others had, but he refused to do the same. It wasn't terribly hard, with the sun coming through the slats in the walls. He'd taken to using the latch from his belt to carve tally marks into the wall of their cage.

It was day 73, and Murdock had been gone for six.

Peck used extra little slashes on his tallies to indicate in someone was being questioned. One at the bottom meant B.A., one a fourth up meant Ray, one halfway meant Hannibal, one three-fourths up meant himself, and one at the top meant Murdock.

Murdock's mark was up there the most.

Face figured someone must have squealed on the pilot early on. Everyone knew Charlie hated pilot's, and the fact that there was one in the midst was a pretty damn good bargaining tool.

Face wondered who it was who'd given up his friend. He wondered if they were even still alive. A sick part of him hoped they weren't.

"Peck! Your pilot's coming back!" A quiet voice hissed.

"Shit, he looks like crap..." Another man muttered.

Face stayed quiet, simply moving to the back of his cell, eager to have Murdock back with him. Back where he could keep him safe.

The second voice was right - Murdock did look like crap. His skin was blistered red, and there were bumps of what Face assumed was bug bites all over him. They must have left him in one of the hanging outdoor cages for several days.

Murdock whimpered at the two VC tossed him onto the dirt floor of the cage, and Peck hissed in sympathy. As soon as the door had been slammed shut, Face was at the pilot's side, running fingers through his thinning hair in an attempt to bring comfort.

"It's gonna be okay, big guy," he whispered, his voice not carrying to anyone else. "We're gonna get out of here. Hannibal's got a plan, and I'm gonna keep you safe."

"Promise?" Murdock asked, his voice cracking from disuse.

"Cross my heart."

_-4._

Face was quiet as he exited the small and dingy motel bathroom. He'd stopped hearing movement outside the door halfway through his shower, and assumed that Murdock was asleep.

Looking at the bed next to the wall, he was unsurprised to see the pilot curled up in a tight ball, all of his clothes still on and shivering without a blanket. The con man sighed, moving towards Murdock and slipping his hat off his head. Setting it on the side table, he next moved to the worn tennis shoes that Murdock wore, gently untying them, intent on not waking him up, and slid them to the ground.

Finally, Face looked down at the pilot one more time, before moving to his own bed and pulling off the blankets, tucking them around Murdock instead. Face hated being warm or hot while he slept, while Murdock's night terrors got worse the colder he was. Giving the other man his blanket was hardly a sacrifice.

With one last look at the sleeping man, Face hit the lights and crawled into his own bed.

_-5._

Face was concerned by how silent Murdock was. The older man hadn't said anything all day, and it was nearing six at night. No, instead Murdock had been walking around in a zombie like state.

It had been a decade since Murdock had been like this - the only other time it had happened had been after Face first broke him out of the VA, and stolen the pilot's medical file on the way out. Once he'd learned the full extent of the horrors Murdock had suffered while in a Vietnam VA hospital, it was hardly a shock to see the Texan so despondent.

Was it any surprise that Face was worried, seeing him like that again.

"You know," Face began, turning in the backseat of B.A.'s van so that he fully faced the pilot. "I've been trying to decide where I should next scam an apartment."

He paused, hoping that Murdock would take the bait. He wasn't surprised, though, when instead the Captain stayed quiet - he didn't even turn to acknowledge that Peck had spoken to him.

"I'm thinking I might go for Malibu this time around," Face continued, deciding that keeping up the conversation was the best thing he could do at the moment. "Maybe get a little place by the sea... We could learn ho to surf - or, well, you could learn how to surf. You won't catch me anywhere near a surfboard. The ocean is far too unpredictable for my tastes. And not in a good way, like a woman. No, the sea is it's own master, and it's master is a beast."

Face could feel the Colonel's eyes on him, and occasionally B.A.'s. He did his best to ignore them both. As worried as they were about the pilot, they couldn't hold a candle to the anxieties gripping Peck.

"Or, we could go down the coast. I haven't scammed anything in San Diego for years. We could stay there for a few weeks - maybe visit Mexico for a while. I haven't pulled a con on the Baja Peninsula yet. First time for everything, right?

"We could also go up, take in San Francisco. I've been meaning to take a touristy picture on the bridge for a while now. I could get us a place on the hill, where we can look out on the Bay. Won't even need to take the Corvette up those hills, we could just ride the cable cars instead."

"So long as we don't visit Alcatraz," Murdock whispered softly. "I've had enough prisons for a lifetime."

Face gave the pilot a sad smile. "Me too, buddy... Me too."

_+1._

Murdock could count on one hand the number of times he'd heard Facey-man have a nightmare - the answer was never. He was the only member of their ragtag band who didn't, and Murdock was never quite sure if he envied the man that or not.

He finally had his answer.

Face had woken him up screaming bloody murder, and if the banging on their motel wall was any indication, he'd woken up the rest of the establishment as well.

Murdock had darted over to the con man's bed, shaking him awake. As soon as Face had woken up, he'd jumped from the bed and rushed to the bathroom, the sound of dry heaving reaching Murdock's ears.

The pilot moved into the bathroom as soon as the sound stopped, his heart sinking at the sight. Facey was hunched over the toilet, looking far smaller than Murdock had ever seen him, and if H.M. was being honest, smaller than he ever wanted to see him.

"Bad dream?" He whispered. Face stayed quiet, giving a simple nod in response. "Want me to leave?" Face shook his head. "Alright," Murdock said, moving to sit on the edge of the tub. As soon as he had settled, he reached for the con man, threading fingers through his hair and pulling him against his knees. "'s alright, Facey-man... You can cry. Helps sometimes."

Face stayed quiet for another few seconds, before broken sobs filled the small room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically just a study of the different ways you can take care of a person - whether it's comforting them when they're down, tucking them in, or pulling them out of a funk.


	8. Headcanon Stuff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can ignore this chapter - unless you really like reading stuff about headcanons and world building!

Birthdays:

  * John Smith - May 2, 1933
  * H.M. Murdock - August 4, 1948
  * Templeton Peck - December 7, 1950
  * Bosco Baracus - October 19, 1951



Hometowns

  * Hannibal = Allentown, Pennsylvania
  * Faceman = Los Angeles, California
  * Murdock = Rio Hondo, Texas (grew up on a ranch 20 miles out)
  * B. A. = Chicago, Illinois



* * *

  * Along with Howling Mad, H. M. also stands for Henry Matthew (technically canon - French dub)
  * When Face was 11, he saved up his money to go to see Dr. No. He was completely entranced with the character of James Bond, and from that moment on he tried to emulate the character.




End file.
